


Shouldn't Be My Idea Of Fun (But It Is)

by OperaGoose



Series: Old FFNet Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John doesn't mind that much, M/M, Sherlock is a stalker, attempted comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaGoose/pseuds/OperaGoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The (not really) infamous Stalker!Sherlock fic I wrote.</p><p>From FF.Net</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shouldn't Be My Idea Of Fun (But It Is)

**Author's Note:**

> Transposed from FFNet without Author's notes. Written 2010

Title: **Shouldn't Be My Idea of Fun, But It Is**  
Category: TV Shows » Sherlock  
Author: OperaGoose  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  
Genre: Humor/Romance  
Published: 09-04-10, Updated: 09-21-10  
Chapters: 11, Words: 22,150 

* * *

**Chapter 1: Stalker**

* * *

John would learn later that he noticed on the fourth day of Sherlock Holmes following him that he was being stalked. That was apparently better than the slender brunette had estimated. He'd noticed the same person through-out his daily errands and intentionally veered off-course. The next day he'd be wondering idly (avoiding his usual routine, so as to shake his stalker off) when the man who had been following him jumped in the taxi before it took off. 

"What the bloody fucking hell?" John screamed, outraged. This had gone too far! 

"Hello, doctor." The man greeted. "Your limp is psychosomatic..." He began. 

John scowled, unsettled. He interrupted to demand: "Who the hell are you?" 

"You'll learn that soon enough." The stalker rambled off John's exact address "and hurry please, Arnold." He spoke directly to the taxi driver, who seemed entirely unsurprised by the man knowing his name. "You're going to miss your landlord's surprise visit." He frowned, distracted as his phone beeped. He took it out and his scowl deepened. "Your limp _is_ psychosomatic, but that doesn't mean you don't think it hurts. If you spend all day walking around like this trying to avoid me, you're going to aggravate it." 

John floundered for a moment, spluttering – how the hell had...? A dozen accusations flitted through his mind, but the question that came out was: "Why does my damn leg matter to you?" 

The brunette smirked. "The leg doesn't particularly, but if you're invalidated by imaginary pain you're of no use to me." He punched a couple keys on his mobile and slid it back in his pocket. "Arnold, pull over here pleae." As soon as the car was stationary, he practically leapt out. "Sorry, doctor – I wasn't planning on meeting you for a few more days, but your paranoia has been quite disruptive to my plans. Good day!" He tossed 'Arnold' a fifty pound note and sprinted off. 

Leaving John behind asking: "What the buggering hell just happened?" 

... 

John had been jolted awake too early morning. Not because of his usual war-torn nightmares, but because of an unusual noise. He was sat upright in bed, bullet flying towards the sound before he really had time to think. A familiar silhouette straightened up and studied the wall with a tilted head. "That's a kill-shot." The voice of his stalker mused. 

He hadn't seen his stalker for three days, but he was positive that he could _feel_ the bloke's eyes on him wherever he went. "What...?" He panted for breath, and glared as hatefully as he could at the silhouette. "What the bloody hell are you doing _in my flat_?" 

"Not much of a flat." The man commented wryly, crossing the room and flicking the desklamp on. "Good morning, John." 

"How do you know my name?" The doctor hissed. 

"You keep a spare key under the doormat. Rediculously simple to guess, nearly everyone does. I've come to expect more of you. If someone wanted to rob you, they could do so easily." His stalker peered around the room with an enquiring (yet somehow not judgemental) eye. "Not that they'd find much." 

The last commented didn't seem to be purposely defensive, but John let it fuel his anger. "Look, I don't know who the fuck you think you are, or what you think you can do, but–" 

"Oh." The man gave a wry smile, half his face cloaked in shadow. "Sherlock Holmes, pleased to meet you." 

"No it bloody well is _not_ pleasant!" John shouted, furious. "First you _stalk_ me around—" 

"Stalk?" Sherlock echoed, sounding surprised. "Yes, I suppose you could call it stalking..." 

" _First_ ," John repeated at a growl, "you stalk me all around London. _Then_ you get in my taxi and send me home. _Now_ you're standing in **my flat** insulting me!" 

If Sherlock had been anything more than ghostly white, he would have paled. Instead, he just looked stricken. "Insulting? I never insulted you." He protested, sounding vaguely strangled. 

"Why?" John hissed instead of answering. 

"You intrigued me." Sherlock admitted very quietly. "You were at the park patching up a little girl's knee and I had you pegged down as a concerned male relative. But then her father berated her for talking to strangers. Your body language all pin-pointed to intense caring and protective instincts, but it turns out you had never met the girl before in your life." He tilted his head to study the doctor, still clutching the handgun in a white-knuckled fist. "Not very many people fool me, Doctor Watson." 

John put the gun on his bed-side table. He buried his face in his hands. The girl had been crying, and it sounded exactly like an Iranian toddler who had lost her mother in the confusion of a battle. John hadn't been able to help then, but he could help her there. The little girl even had her own plasters in her pockets. 

It wasn't until Sherlock-Holmes-the-Stalker commented "Interesting" that John realised he had spoken aloud. "Yet, the more I watched you, the more complicated you seemed to become. Army doctor, psychosomatic limp, definite trust issues, turbulent relationship with your brother—" John looked up at that. Brother? ...oh. "—and an intermittent tremor in your left hand." 

John clenched the fist under scrutiny. "It took you four days to figure that out?" He asked coolly. 

"Actually, that took me less than an hour." Sherlock dismissed easily. "But you still fascinate me. I can't quite figure you out. You don't make much sense." 

John scowled. "See what I mean, with the insulting?" He ground out between clenched teeth. 

"Insult—no, no. You misunderstand. It takes ten minutes to figure out a whole person, usually. Their motives, their history, their ambitions – it's all ridiculously simple to deduce once you know what to look for. But _you_ —" There was something strange glinting in his eyes and John didn't quite know whether to be scared or not, " _you_ are different. You don't follow the usual norms. _You're interesting_!" 

"I'm a freak?" John translated stonily. 

Sherlock smiled softly. "All the best of us are." He swept his coat up from the back of the desk chair and pulled it on. "Come, Watson – I'll take you to breakfast." 

... 

Sherlock turned up bloody everywhere! John would be handing over the money for his daily latte only to catch the reflection of his stalker in the polished steel of the espresso machine. He'd round the corner at Tescos to find the man going through his trolley and studying his selected items. He'd be unsuccessfully trying to hail a taxi when a long arm with a black-leather glove would smoothly extended and summon the closest black hackney to their side. He'd be reading a newspaper and resting his leg on a park bench when a now very-familiar baritone would spring up beside him: "if you're done with the front half...?" 

The last straw came when he was waiting for his therapy appointment, reading a National Geographic from 1967 (an outdated article, he noted) when the voice of his stalker complained: "This is so dull!" He sounded genuinely distressed, and John frowned at him, lowering the magazine. "All this waiting around! Your appointment was due to start thirteen minutes ago. She's not even helping anyway, all she does is tell you to write in your 'blog'." 

John slammed the magazine down with as much force as he could muster. "You listen to me _right now_! I accepted you following me, I didn't press charges when you _broke into my house_. Bloody hell! I even make you a spare cup of tea in the mornings because I _know_ you're sitting at my desk by the time I get out of the kitchen. But you **listening in to my therapy sessions** is taking it **TOO FAR**!" 

He stormed out of the therapist's office and didn't realise until a smirking Sherlock reappeared with it an hour later that he'd even forgotten his cane. 

He'd taken it with a stony glare and mentally noted that Sherlock, in his never-ending capacity to be utterly infuriating, had cured him of his psychosomatic limp, even if it was for just an hour. 

"Now that _that_ dullness is done with," Sherlock announced grandly, smiling widely, "it's time to go do something _fun_!" 

"Definitely not. I'm not doing anything with you." John protested, turning to walk away. 

He was a little surprised when Sherlock didn't immediately follow him. But the silky baritone called effortlessly: "could be dangerous." 

John froze. "Damn." 

... 

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John demanded, eyeing the flashing blue lights of the police with mild distrust. 

"Having fun." Sherlock dismissed easily. 

"No, _seriously_ , what am I doing here?" John pressed, agitated. 

"So impatient." Sherlock clucked. 

John halted just a moment. " _You_ calling me impatient?" He demanded, rushing a little to catch up with the long-limbed and speedy stalker. "That's a bit rich..." 

"Hello, Freak." A lazy, impertinent voice greeted. 

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lastrade." Sherlock dismissed her. John balked, but continued to follow the man a little more hesitantly. 

"Why?" 

Sherlock turned her an affronted look. "I was _invited_." He told her matter-of-factly. 

"Why?" She repeated, more forcefully. 

He now seemed ticked off. Something John had rarely seen – he was usually just bored and dismissive. "I think he wants me to take a look." He shot back condescendingly. 

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" She returned. The whole thing had an air of practice to it, like they'd had this stand-off in some variation a dozen times before. 

Sherlock ducked under the police tape. "Always, Sally." He paused and studied her with scrutinizing eyes. "Even though you spent last night at the Liquid Club." He added. 

'Sally' paled and gripped her wrist where the nearly-invisible stamp from the club was inked onto her skin. John felt totally bewildered, but stepped forward when Sherlock lifted the tape for him. She stuttered slightly as she lifted her hand in warning. "Who's this?" She demanded. 

"Colleague of mine." Sherlock answered dismissively. "Doctor John Watson." He gestured between them. "Doctor Watson, Sargeant Sally Donovan." He gave her a malicious grin. "An old friend." 

"A colleague?" Sargeant Donovan echoed, sceptical. "How do _you_ get a colleague?" She mocked. She turned to John with a smirk. "What, did he follow you home?" 

"Yes!" John huffed, exasperated. "How the bloody hell do I get him to stop?" 

The sargeant paled, and looked increasingly angry as Sherlock lifted the tape again and John limped through. "Hold on, I wasn't serious – but is the Freak _actually_ following you?" 

"Yes." John answered in annoyance. 

"John." Sherlock called in warning, walking towards the open door flanked by officers. 

"He won't leave me alone!" John whispered desperately. 

The sargeant went to say something, but Sherlock's voice called back: "Danger!" and John was off after him muttering another string of curses. When he caught up, Sherlock was locking horns with a man who looked amusingly enough like Snape. Sherlock smiled at him, then turned a blank stare back at 'Snape', "May I go in?" He asked, obviously not waiting for permission as he attempted to stalk past. 

"Look, whatever you're trying to imply...!" 'Snape' protested, staring after him in abject horror. 

"Oh, nothing at all – Anderson. I'm sure those bite marks on your collarbone came from your wife who mut have returned three days early from her cruise to the Bahammas with the gardener's boy." Sherlock gave 'Snape' ( _Anderson_ , John corrected himself) a bright grin and swept inside. 

John followed at a meeker pace, keeping his eyes away from the irate Potion's Professor and a worried Sargeant Sally. For his own sake, he was glad he wasn't on the bad side of Sherlock Holmes, whoever he turned out to be. 

They headed to the foyer where there was a pile of forensic equipment assembled. 

"Who's this?" A new voice demanded. 

"He's with me." Sherlock dismissed casually, exchanging his leather gloves for latex ones. 

"Yeah, but _who is he_?" The greying man prodded, sounding irritated. 

Sherlock froze, glaring at the man coldly. "I said: he's with me." He repeated firmly, eyes daring the man to protest again. 

"Doctor John Watson." He introduced himself shakily. 

"Detective Inspector Lastrade." The other man returned, frowning. "Well, at least he's a doctor. Put these gloves on." 

Sherlock flounced out, asking "Main bedroom?" without bothering to wait for an answer. 

"Listen, about Sherlock—" John said in a sotto voice to the DI, "he's stalking me." He said bluntly. "How do I get him to go away?" 

Lestrade looked utterly bewildered for a moment, before shrugging. "Well, I suppose you could get a restraining order." He mused. 

"But?" John pressed, recognising the tone of voice. 

"But there's no guarantee he'd even pay attention." John gasped, terrified and (if he admitted only to himself) a little bit thrilled by the prospect. Thankfully, Lestrade only saw the former and put a hand on John's shoulder. "He'll get bored. Don't worry about it." 

"John!" Sherlock's voice echoed through the house. "Danger!" 

With a sigh, John Watson followed the apparent command. They climbed through the house and turned up in the master bedroom, looking down at a body so fiercely mangled that if it wasn't for the barely-intact sexual organs, John wouldn't even have recognised it as male. 

Sherlock looked positively gleeful, and gave John a hundred-watt-grin. "See, John? Isn't this _fun_!" 

* * *

**Chapter 2: Dull**

* * *

John stared unwaveringly at the eagerly grinning Sherlock. His face was flushing, but he didn't quite know whether it was really from anger or embarassment. There was a severely mangled corpse lying on a persian rug and Sherlock had called it _fun_... 

"Sherlock, can you at least _try_ to be a little more sensitive?" DI Lestrade requested, coming into the room. 

...and damn it, he was right. A twisted jolt of thrill ran through John as he took in what remained of the corpse. He met Sherlock's eyes hesitantly, and the other man's expression went from excited to smug. He saw what John was desperate to conceal. 

"Let's get on with it, shall we?" The brunette suggested. Instead of crossing to the body, he went and crouched down beside the fireplace. He glanced at Lestrade, but he looked a little confused. With a mental shrug, John returned his attention to the corpse. 

The lack of violent blood spray meant that the man had been dead before the mutilation began – the blood had poolled idly around him staining the rug. John's couldn't spot a cause of death, though. 

He looked across at Sherlock when the man sighed in resignation. "Dull." He pronounced, flouncing back towards the door. "The murderer burnt the murder weapon, how droll." He commented, heading out. "Come on, John!" He called. 

"Sherlock, wait! You can't just _leave_!" Lestrade protested desperately, "You haven't told us anything!" 

Sherlock strode back into the room, coat billowing slightly. "Come on, Lestrade – this is insipidly obvious." At Lestrade's bewildered look, Sherlock sighed in annoyance and crossed to the other side of the room. "The man was killed here, by three hits to the head with a wooden object. He was dragged over to that rug and mutilated so as to hide his identity. A _monkey_ could have figured this out!" 

John looked between an irate Sherlock and a bewildered Lestrade and could only say, "Huh?" 

"Oh, for god's—" Sherlock growled in frustration and pointed directly upwards. "Those blood flecks on the ceiling. Could only be made by a man of six-foot-nine hitting a kneeling person three times, each time swinging the object up and down – probably to gain more force behind the blows. The scuff-marks on the floor show that the victim was dragged over to the rug, not carried – his head hit the ground once." He stepped closer, pointing to a red smudge on the floorboard. He pointed. "There." He clarified. He stood beside the body. "The hacking is rough and very unprofessional – he was in a hurry to get out of here. My guess is he used a pen-knife or swiss army knife which he'll have tossed in the tip across the road. You're looking for someone tall and muscular, prone to fits of rage. Probably a rugby player." 

He gave Lestrade an irritated expression, "Happy now?" 

John was left bewildered and floundering. "...that was brilliant." He flushed in embarassment when Sherlock looked over at him with a surprised expression. "Uh, I mean..." 

"You two can go." Lestrade dismissed. "Send Anderson and the team up, will you?" 

Sherlock swept out, and John limped after him. He glared a little irritated as he hurried away down the road. He sighed and adjusted his grip on the cane. 

"You should stay away from him." John looked across to see Sargeant Donovan pulling on a pair of gloves. "He's not a friend, Doctor. He doesn't have 'friends' – he's not capable of making them." She continued warningly. "So, I'm worried about his interest in you." 

"He'll get bored." John repeated Lestrade's sentiment, fighting down the inner disappointment. Of course he'd get bored. "I'm nothing special." 

She gave him an assessing look. "Somehow I don't think he will." She shook her head. "A bit of advice, then: get the hell out of London." 

John blinked wildly. "Why?" He asked, confused. 

Sargeant Donovan gave him a stern look. "Do you know why he's here? He's not on the force, or anything." She stepped closer and lowered her voice slightly. "He _likes_ it. He gets off on it. And one day, we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there." She gave him a worried look. "And right now I'm a little bit worried that body's going to be you." 

"What?" He echoed, terrified. 

"He's never shown an interest in anyone before." She commented coldly. "He's a psychopath!" 

"High-functioning sociopath, Sally – how many times do I have to tell you?" John became aware of the quiet purr of a taxi engine and turned to see Sherlock step out of a black cab. "Ready to go, Doctor Watson?" He asked. 

"Yeah..." He said nervously. He climbed in the taxi and tensed his muscles, prepared to jump out should Sherlock start anything. The brunette gave him a strange look and closed the door behind him. He handed the taxi driver some money and supplied John's address. He leaned back in the window. "Sorry that was so dull, John. I _had_ hoped we'd be doing something fun." 

John felt himself pale as his heart raced and his skin started to sweat. He was terrified – Sherlock thought that sadistic and horrible murder was _dull_. 

"You really can't rely on the criminal classes these days." Sherlock continued. John could so perfectly imagine him adding "I'll do better, don't worry." that he almost thought Sherlock had actually said it for a moment. He trembled and fumbled with his seat belt. "Goodnight, John." 

He tapped the side of the car and the taxi rumbled away without him. John tried to calm his breathing in the long trip home, his stomach in knots. His stalker was a psychopath who thought mutilation was dull – what they hell was he in for? 

* * *

**Chapter 3: Mine**

* * *

Finding out your stalker was a psychopath who thought mutilation was dull did not make for a good night's rest. John had tossed and turned all night, starting at every single noise thinking it was Sherlock come to get him. In the cold light of dawn (when he finally got to sleep) he was plagued by the usual nightmares of Afghanistan. When he woke up, there was a cup of tea sitting on his bedside table beside his flashing phone. An unopened text message read: 

Didn't want to wake you up. 

You look like you had a bad night. 

See you later. SH 

The tea was at the perfect temperature to drink, which meant Sherlock had been in here just minutes ago. Safe to say, John was terrified. 

... 

He didn't see Sherlock all day. He could certainly _feel_ the psychopath's eyes on him at every point, but he was careful not to be seen. His trolley in Tesco's was unaccompanied, but certainly looked riffled through – and the cheese had been replaced with one slightly further away from its expiry date than the one he had picked up. 

He kept looking around him, anxious – the people on the streets were giving him a funny look. So when he had been bodily manhandled into a car by a pair of men in black suits, he was suitably panicked. He'd fought, kicking and trying to punch, but he was easily out-manoeuvred into the back of a black sedan. There was someone else in the car, dressed in a suit of better quality than the other two, with a silk maroon tie. 

"Good evening, Doctor Watson." The man greeted. 

"Okay, what the hell!" John protested, uselessly tugging at the handle of the door beside him. Child locked, of course. "Did Sherlock send you to kidnap me off the street?" He demanded. 

"No." The man answered, sounding almost offended. 

"Who the hell are you?" John demanded. 

"An interested party." The other man replied blandly. 

"Interested in me." John added, sceptical. "Why?" He demanded forcefully. 

"You've met Sherlock. How many friends do you think he has?" The other man asked cryptically. 

"So this _is_ about Sherlock." John snapped, angrily. 

"Yet, for some hitherto unknown reason, he's taken a consuming interest in you." The man scrutinized him carefully. "Do you plan to continue your ascociation with Sherlock Holmes?" He asked. 

"I don't think that's any of your business." John snapped angrily. 

"It could be." The man's phone emitted a beep, which he ignored. 

"Why?" John hissed, suspicious. 

"I worry about him." The man replied, his expression entirely neutral. "Constantly." 

"That's nice of you." John sneered. 

The man's phone beeped and he took it out of his pocket with a frown. "Sherlock is not the type to establish serious relationships easily." He put the mobile away. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him." 

"Look, if I knew how to shake him off, I would, okay!" John yelled, infuriated. "But I _don't_ know how to get him to stop, so don't waste my time telling me to avoid him!" 

"Quite the contrary, I think your continuing interactions could be good for Sherlock." The man announced blandly. 

There was a screech of tyres and a rough jerk as the car braked suddenly. One of the men in the front (body guards, John guessed) groaned. "He's found us, sir." He commented, before the door beside John was roughly yanked open. 

"John! Did he hurt you?" Sherlock asked hurriedly, crouching half-in the car and yanking at the doctor's seatbelt. He scowled at the other man. "What are you doing here?" He demanded coldly. 

"As ever, I'm concerned about you." The man answered mildly, pulling out his phone. 

"Yes, I can obviously see your concern!" Sherlock shot back sarcastically. "John, get out of the car now." He commanded. 

John rushed to comply, afraid of the man in the car and what Sherlock might do if he dared to disobey. He sat on the curb and watched Sherlock argue with the other man. 

"You stay away from him! He's not your concern!" Sherlock growled, gripping the car doorway in white-knuckled fists. "He's _mine_!" He ground out furiously through clenched teeth. 

"Always so aggressive, Sherlock." The other man commented mildly. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. I was merely _talking_ to Mister Watson." 

"Look at him, he's terrified!" Sherlock spat angrily. "Stay away from us." 

"I'm merely taking an interest. You know how your behaviour upsets Mummy." John balked: what the hell? 

" _I_ upset her?" Sherlock echoed furiously. "I'm not the one running to her with all my exploits, Mycroft!" 

"Do calm down, Sherlock. There's really no need for all of this." The other man ('Mycroft') answered dismissively. 

"You stay away from John or I'll tell Mummy _exactly_ what happened to her china at Christmas Dinner." Sherlock threatened. John glimpsed the other man's stricken face as Sherlock pulled away to slam the door. It started with a quiet purr and drove off. 

"Who's Mummy? He said something about 'Mummy'?" John asked, bewildered. The adrenaline was making it hard to think straight. 

"Mother. Our mother." Sherlock answered, glaring after the car sourly. "That was my brother, Mycroft." 

"He's your brother?" John echoed, shocked. 

"Of course he's my brother." Sherlock replied dismissively. "When he's not too busy being the British Government or the Secret Service," he turned to look at a shivering John, "or the CIA on a Freelance basis. Are you sure you're alright?" 

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. I've just been kidnapped off the street and rescued by my pyschopathic stalker. Give me a moment to let it all set in!" John complained, burying his face in his hands. 

"I'm _not_ a psychopath!" Sherlock whined, with the air of someone tired of repeating themselves. "I'm a high-functionining sociopath – there's a very distinct difference." He explained, calmer. 

John lowered his hands and glared tiredly at Sherlock from under his brow. 

"Feeling better? Good. Let's grab some dinner." 

... 

Sherlock strode into a non-descript restaurant, followed hesitantly by John. The waiter nearest the door gestured towards the table by the window, and Sherlock headed towards it with a calm: "Thank you, Billy." He stood by the table, stripping off his coat and scarf while John sat and took of his own jacket. 

A bearded man approached them quickly. "Sherlock!" He greeted warmly, shaking the man's hand eagerly. Sherlock gave a tight smile as the man continued, "Anything on the menu, anything you want – free. On the house for you, and your date." He promised, handing them both laminated menus. 

John blinked wildly. "I'm not his—" 

"What do you feel like?" Sherlock interrupted. 

"This man got me off a murder charge!" The bearded man informed John eagerly. 

"This is Angelo." Sherlock answered factually, browsing the menu. John shook the man's hand as Sherlock explained: "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly gruesome triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town housebreaking." 

"He cleared my name!" 'Angelo' declared joyously. 

"I cleared it a bit." Sherlock dismissed. "Garlic bread for starters, John?" He suggested. 

"Uh, yeah." John agreed, withdrawing his attention from the hero-worshipping man and his bizarre stalker to the menu. He chose the first thing he saw that drew his fancy and handed the menu back to Angelo. 

"Of course, of course – anything for Sherlock." Angelo agreed eagerly. "For this man, I would've gone to jail." 

"You did go to jail." Sherlock reminded him gently. 

"I'll get a candle for the table," Angelo decided, clearly avoiding the subject, "it's more romantic." 

"Roman—oh, never mind." John groaned, massaging his temple. 

"We shouldn't have long to wait, Angelo will probably comandeer our orders from another table." Sherlock commented blandly. 

Sure enough, less than a minute after the man had left, he reappeared with a plate of fresh garlic bread and a candle in a glass. Sherlock nibbled rather daintily as John dove in, realising how hungry he was now that the adrenaline had worn off. After a moment of awkward silence, John broke the ice. 

"Who are you?" John asked curiously. "I mean, other than stalking me, what do you do?" 

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Take a guess." He suggested. 

John frowned, uncomfortable with being told to guess. Sherlock was so secretive. He closed his eyes as he tried to think. Angelo had said Sherlock had gotten him off a murder charge, but Sargeant Donovan had said he wasn't part of the force... "A private detective?" He guessed, nervous. 

"Sometimes." Sherlock agreed. "When the case is interesting enough. Otherwise, I offer myself to the police as a consulting detective. The only one in the world," he grinned, "I invented the job." 

"Consulting detective? How's that different?" John asked, confused. 

"Well, you see when the police are out of the depth, which is _always_ , they consult me." Sherlock explained. 

"Oh," John commented, "you're better than the police, then?" 

Sherlock smiled warmly. "Of course. I'm the best." John wasn't entirely sure that was true. "You don't believe me." Sherlock noted. 

"Not really." John agreed. "I mean, the crime scene last night was pretty brilliant, but..." 

"The couple on the table next to us." Sherlock interruped whatever he might have said next. John looked over, but Sherlock's eyes were resolutely on John's face. "The woman's been cheating on him, and he's found out this morning. He's going to confront her tonight." 

John looked and only saw a happily married couple, enjoying a bottle of wine with their pizza. "How can you tell?" He asked quietly. 

"The woman's wearing an expensive perfume, far beyond the price range of her date there. Women hate buying perfume, true fact, but they love to have it bought for them. Unless they detest the scent, they'd much prefer wearing a gifted perfume over one they bought themselves. Which means she has another relationship, with someone much richer and probably older than this one." Sherlock began quietly. "The man is dressed well, better than usual – that's obvious from the slight discomfort he's feeling. He's not used to being this dressed up, but he's falling back on a very Spartan ideal: you go into battle looking your best in case you don't come out alive. He's prepared for an argument, but she's relatively casually dressed – the shoes are of no great expense and her lipgloss doesn't match. So, she's going for comfort rather than bravado, which suggests they've been together for a significant amount of time and she's getting bored with the relationship." 

Angelo came and delivered John's next course, but he was completely rivetted on Sherlock's explanation and the couple in front of them. 

"Here's where it gets interesting though – the woman has a very faint tan on her hands, just enough to highlight the wedding ring she's pointedly not wearing. This man's offended he's being cheated on when in fact, he is the extra-marital affair." Sherlock touched John's arm with a grin, re-directing his conversation. "But, he doesn't know that." 

John just stared for a few moments. "...that...was...amazing." He managed out eventually. 

Sherlock looked surprised and studied him for a few moments, as if judging his honesty. "You think so?" He asked eventually. 

"Of course it was!" John replied eagerly. "It was extraodinary! It was quite..." He paused at Sherlock's utterly brilliant grin. "Extraordinary." 

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock pointed out. 

John frowned, "What do they—" 

"Eat up, before your ravioli gets cold." Sherlock interrupted. 

John nodded and started on his meal, groaning softly at the delicious taste. "This is really good!" He supplied eagerly. "I'm sure your girlfriend would've liked this place." 

"If I ever had one, I'm sure they would." Sherlock answered, frowning. 

"So...you don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asked, distracted. 

"Girlfriend." Sherlock seemed to chew on the word, and wrinkled his nose in distaste. "No. Not really my area." 

John nodded absently, then froze – fork mid-way through another ravioli. If Sherlock didn't have a girlfriend because it 'wasn't his area'... "Oh." He managed out, his throat oddly thick. His palms began sweating slightly. "Right." He added, floundering. "Do you, uh, have a boyfriend?" He asked nervously. Sherlock turned him an odd look. "Which is fine, by the way!" He added hurriedly. 

"I know that it's 'fine'." Sherlock replied pointedly. 

John gave him a weak smile, and Sherlock's mouth tweaked up just a bit. "So...you have a boyfriend though?" He pressed, not entirely sure what answer he wanted the consulting detective to give. 

"No." Sherlock answered, almost before John had finished answering the question. 

"Right." John said, "Okay." He stuffed a ravioli in his mouth and spent a while chewing, conscious of Sherlock's unwavering gaze locked on him. "You're unattached." John supplied after swallowing. "Like me." 

Sherlock frowned slightly and turned to look at the couple at the table next to them, still having their whispered argument. He stiffened slightly when his phone pinged from his pocket and scowled. "Sorry, that will be Lestrade." He commented. He sighed in annoyance as he read the text and stood. "Very sorry to run out on you, it's terrible manners. But I've got to get to the crime scene before Anderson messes anything up." 

"Oh, okay then." John agreed easily. 

Sherlock shucked into his coat and tugged his scarf into place. "Finish your meal, I'll see you again tomorrow." He promised, tossing a fifty pound note on the table. 

"I thought you said the meal was free?" John asked, confused. 

"It is. That's for your taxi." He paused and studied John for a long moment, before putting a hand on his shoulder and smiling. "Have a good night, John." He said, before swooping out of the restaurant. 

* * *

**Chapter 4: 221B**

* * *

By the time a month had passed, John was mostly used to Sherlock stalking him. The consulting detective randomly popping into existence whenever he wasn't too busy with a case became commonplace. Even Harry knew about it, much to John's chagrin. It was the hijacking of his taxi he still couldn't get used to. 

John had now been to six different crime scenes, unwilling at first but now obediently following Sherlock whenever the taller man thought the cases were 'fun'. Fun seemed synonymous with twisted or confusing (to John) in the consulting detective's mind. But that was okay, because John's apparent interpretation of fun was 'dangerous', so their interests complimented quite well. 

Sherlock had also apparently 'helped' a restaurant owner on nearly every street in London – also a shoe-maker who worked with the best Italian leathers and the owner of a shooting range. Their outing to said range probably should have been terrifying: the slightly muffled and echoing sounds of gunfire really ought to have traumatized him with their similarity to Afghanistan, but instead he felt calm and at the same time, oddly thrilled. His hand hadn't wavered _once_ while he was firing. 

One dreary afternoon he found Sherlock rummaging through his trolley with a disapproving frown. "Why are all these generic brand, John?" He demanded, not looking up. 

John knew he probably ought to be defensive, but he merely put a carton of teabags in the trolley and answered: "Can't really afford Central London on an army pension." Sherlock frowned like he usually did when John gave some explanation he didn't understand – not quite confusion, but not ridiculous enough to be quizzical. He added, "I'm budgeting." 

Sherlock's face cleared, and he turned over a loaf of bread. "I'm sure you're charged an absurd amount for that tiny little flat you inhabit." Sherlock commented blandly. "It would be much cheaper for you to move in with me." 

"I'm sure it would." John agreed absently, trying to decide between two brands of ginger snaps. 

"Excellent." Sherlock grinned and strode off. John shook his head at the oddities of his stalker and went back to his shopping. 

Looking back on it, he probably should have been more wary of his answer to Sherlock's comment. 

He came home the next day and was immediately set on edge. He had left his laptop open on his desk, and now it was nowhere to be seen. Sure, it wasn't unusual for Sherlock to pop in and move his stuff around, but when he found his _gun_ missing, he began to panic. 

His phone beeped intrusively in his pocket and he tore it out. 

221B Baker St. SH 

He clenched his fist as he put the phone back away, wondering what the hell his stalker was up to now. Hailing a taxi, he supplied the mysterious address. It was probably just another crime scene, but at least John could demand some answers. Sherlock couldn't just _steal_ his gun. 

When he pulled up, Sherlock was stood by the curb with his hands clasped behind his back – his general 'patiently waiting' pose. He pulled the car open and helped the doctor out with a hand on the centre of his back. A passing old lady gave them a disgusted look, but John was entirely used to the odd gestures the consulting detective tended to bestow. 

Sherlock handed the driver a note and led John inside the door marked 221B. "Mrs Hudson!" He called. 

A motherly middle-aged woman came out from a corridor. "What is it, Sherlock?" She asked kindly. 

"Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson." Sherlock introduced, presenting the doctor forward with another hand to the back. 

"Oh! Hello dear!" She greeted warmly, pulling him into a tight hug. "So good to finally meet you. Sherlock has been—" 

"Mrs Hudson, please." Sherlock interrupted, looking a bit embarrassed. John refrained from arching an eyebrow – was the consulting detective really that excited about his new (and possibly only) friend? 

"Oh, sorry. You two head upstairs, I'll bring up some tea." She paused as she turned around and fixed him with a firm look. "Just this once, mind you – I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper." She added, before disappearing down the same hallway. 

Sherlock gestured up the staircase and followed closely as John ascended. "Mrs Hudson's cut me a special deal – a few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida." Sherlock explained. "I managed to help her out." 

"You stopped her husband from being killed?" John asked, heading through the door at the top of the stairs. 

"No, I ensured it." Sherlock answered dismissively. John balked for a moment, but mentally shrugged it off. It made sense in the twisted way only the consulting detective did. Sherlock gestured around the room with a wave of his arm. "What do you think?" 

John frowned as he looked around. There was no body. "Of...of the flat?" He guessed. 

"Yes, of course." Sherlock said blandly, pulling off his gloves. 

"It's...quite nice, I suppose." John commented. Sherlock _always_ thought his deductions were daft, he didn't know _why_ the consulting detective bothered to ask him about these things. 

"Yes, I thought so to." Sherlock agreed. 

"It's—" He froze, eyes locking on a laptop set up on an otherwise empty desk. "Hang on, is that _my_ laptop?" He demanded. 

"Yes. I thought you'd like it, so I went ahead and moved you in." Sherlock said quickly. 

John was still trying to process what his stalker said when Mrs Hudson came upstairs balancing a tray of tea-things. "The bathroom and kitchen are fully fascilitated, of course, Doctor Watson." She explained proudly. "And there's another room upstairs," She gave him a bright grin, "if you'll be needing two rooms, that is." 

"Well of course we'll be needing two—hang on!" he gave Sherlock a sharp glance, "moved me in?" He asked, bewildered. He turned back to Mrs Hudson, "Who said I was moving in?" 

"I did." Sherlock answered calmly. "Mrs Hudson, would you mind giving us some privacy?" He asked calmly. 

"Yes, of course dear. Bring the tea-things down when you're done with them." She smiled at the silently fuming doctor. "Nice to meet you, John." She added, before disappearing downstairs. 

"What the bloody hell, Sherlock?" He snapped, as soon as Mrs Hudson was out of a decent hearing range. "I didn't agree to moving in with you!" 

"Yes, you did." Sherlock answered smugly, smiling slightly. 

"When?" John demanded. 

"In Tescos." Sherlock replied calmly. "I asked you to move in with me, and you answered in an affirmative manner." 

"I certainly—" John scowled as the conversation came back to him. "Hang on, you were asking me to move in with you?" 

"Of course. I would've thought that was obvious." Sherlock stated. He made up two mugs of tea (one of them John's regimental mug, he noticed with a sour look) and handed one to the still-bewildered doctor. "How do you feel about the violin?" He asked cryptically. 

"What?" John asked, confused. 

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't come home for days. I conduct experiments in the kitchen and leave various body parts in the fridge. I often get very bored and usually end up shooting holes in the wall." Sherlock explained calmly. "As my room-mate, you should be warned." 

"Sherlock, I think you—oh, for god's sake! **Is that a _human_ skull?** " John demanded, staring in horror at the mantlepiece. 

"Yeah. Friend of mine." He glanced at the skull and frowned ever so slightly. "Well, I say 'friend'." He added darkly. He turned his attention back to John and his expression became slightly hurt. "Do you want me to get rid of it?" He asked. 

John felt a glimmer of surprise: Sherlock was really was trying to be a considerate flatmate. "Would you do that?" He asked. 

"For you." Sherlock added very quietly. 

Oddly touched, John shook his head. "No, it's fine." He told him. It really did seem like the consulting detective was trying hard. He really couldn't afford his current flat, and he's briefly considered a flat share. It wasn't like it would be any different _living_ with Sherlock than being stalked by him, either. "Okay." 

"Okay what?" Sherlock asked. 

" 'Okay' as in: I'll move in with you." John answered. 

Sherlock scoffed. "Well, of course you are." He replied. "Mrs Hudson!" He bellowed in the direction of the door. 

"Yes, dear?" Her voice drifted up, almost inaudible. 

"Can you get John an extra set of keys cut up?" 

* * *

**Chapter 5: Clothes**

* * *

John came home to number 221B Baker Street to a number of odd things. Various body parts located in disturbing parts of the kitchen. Sherlock dismantling technological objects to use an obscurely sized screw in his latest device. Disgusting smells from disastrous 'experiments'. Even once, the sight of Sherlock's head between a woman's spread legs (after the initial shock of that, he took the time to notice that the legs weren't actual attached to anything. Still, it caused some weird dreams). Coming home to strangeness was just another fact of life: the sky was blue, bullet wounds hurt, milk expired if it's left out, Sherlock was a genius, if you can still feel your leg the tourniquet isn't tight enough and John came home to oddity. 

So when John came home to the stench of burning fabric one evening, he thought nothing of it. "Evening Sherlock!" He called up the stairs as he ducked into the living room. 

"Evening John!" came Sherlock's muffled reply. 

John stuck the kettle on and headed up the stairs. His laptop was in his room and he really ought to email his resume. He stopped, glaring at the dismantled fire alarm beyond the haze of dirty smoke. "What are we supposed to do if there's an _actual_ fire?" He demanded loudly. 

"I'll reassemble it once I'm done." Sherlock replied calmly. 

John froze with his foot on the step. That sounded like Sherlock was in... But he couldn't... John raced up the remainder of the stairs and threw his bedroom door open, only to be engulfed in a billow of trapped smoke. "Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing in here?" He yelled furiously. 

"Burning your clothes." Sherlock replied calmly. When the smoke cleared, it showed the consulting detective doing just that – he was knelt beside a small mound of (judging by the entirely ransacked chest of drawers) what was left of his clothes, adding more into a metal bin filled with flames. "Don't worry, I'm nearly finished." 

Taking a mental aside to be grateful he was wearing his favourite jumper and jeans, he clenched his fist and glared. "Why are you burning all of my clothes?" He demanded through grinding teeth. 

"I didn't burn all of them. Some of the materials and dyes would've made the smoke toxic to inhale. I'm only burning what's safe – the rest I gave to the Red Cross." Sherlock answered, dropping the rest of the pile in the flames. He looked up and noticed John's growing fury. "Problem?" 

"Sherlock!" John yelled, utterly furious. "You've gotten rid of all my clothes! What the hell am I supposed to _wear_ now?" 

"Well, I'm taking you shopping – obviously." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "None of your clothes were seasonally appropriate. You were going to freeze in a few weeks when Winter sets in." 

John growled. "I could have bought new clothes!" 

Sherlock gave him a confused look. "That's what we're going to do." He pointed out. 

"You didn't have to get rid of all my things!" John cried, outraged. 

"But where would you have kept your new clothes?" Sherloock asked, bewildered. John gaped at him. "I supposed we could've bought you a second chest of drawers, but that seemed a little unnecessary." 

John thumped his head on the door-frame. "Generally Sherlock, one _asks_ a person permission for these types of things." He lectured disparagingly. 

"You would've said no." Sherlock dismissed, getting to his feet. "Come on, we've got a lot to buy you." 

"Can't this wait a day?" John asked. He wasn't particularly in the mood to shop with Sherlock right then. 

"Not really. You'll want to change your underwear tomorrow." Sherlock commented, breezing past him to hurry down the stairs. 

John was stunned for just a moment, but recovered his temper quickly. " **You burnt my underwear?** " 

... 

Shopping with Sherlock wasn't so bad in the end. He wasn't forced to try anything on, as Sherlock could deduce instantly whether it would fit or look strange. Sherlock mainly kept to what he was comfortable in wearing, as well – if a little thicker and sturdier for the coming winter months. He didn't even notice at first that Sherlock wasn't letting him see the price-tags either. He tried not to feel _too_ uncomfortable as Sherlock filled his trolley with underwear. Sherlock was so strange, he probably wouldn't even think of what underwear shopping could suggest. 

He didn't seem at all perturbed by the strange look another man gave them when he asked: "Do you think the dark green silk would look alright with your skin tone?" 

"I don't think that's really an issue, Sherlock." John answered quietly, embarassed. "It's not like anyone's looking at me in my underwear." 

Sherlock smirked slightly and tossed them in anyway. 

They'd finished and were heading to the check out when Sherlock's phone beeped. He rushed off,, leaving behind a bewildered John with his debit card and the words: "I have to see a barber." John had turned around to put most of the things back when his phone beeped in his pocket. With a sigh, he checked the text. 

Buy it all. I'll know if you don't. SH 

Sighing in resignation, John turned back around to the counter and let the woman ring them up. John zoned out as the woman began. His hand shook violently and he flexed his fingers, shoving his hand in his jacket pocket. 

He couldn't believe Sherlock had burnt his clothes! Actually, on second thoughts, he could. Sherlock had given a rational and seemingly logical explanation and if you ignored any emotional recourse (as Sherlock was wont to do) it did make sense. Well, it wasn't that Sherlock _ignored_ them, it was more like he didn't know or properly understand them. 

"Sir?" 

So far, Sherlock had been a (relatively) accomodating flat-mate. He wasn't rushing to bring anyone home, though, despite Sherlock's sort-of permission. When John had asked about 'dating and things like that', Sherlock had given him an amused look and replied with: "We continue as normal." 

"Sir?" 

Thinking about it, John was a little starved for romantic interaction. Little John was a bit tired of solo interaction. It was difficult though – most new women he came across were either dead or suspects. 

"Sir!" John started and looked at the woman standing behind the counter, giving him a concerned look. "Are you okay?" 

"What? Yeah, fine – just a long day. Everything rung up?" John checked, digging his wallet out of his pocket. 

"Yes, sir. It comes to £5000." The woman answered calmly. 

John nearly dropped his wallet. "What?" He demanded. "No, there must be some mistake." He shook his head in denial. His phone beeped and he took it out. 

Ignore the price. SH 

"Was that card or cheque, sir?" The woman prodded. 

His phone beeped again. 

Just do it. Then leave through 

the front entrance. SH 

"Card." John answered reluctantly, handing over Sherlock's debit card. "Savings account." 

Once he left the store, loaded down with bags, there was a familiar man leaning against an umbrella on the curb directly in front of the store. "Mycroft?" 

"Hello once again, John. Put your things in the car, they will be delivered back to," he took out his phone and frowned quizzically, "221B Baker Street." He put the phone away and gave a smile that seemed to be more of a baring of teeth than anything else. 

"Where are you taking me?" John demanded furiously. 

"To dinner. Just a little restaurant around the corner." Mycroft answered calmly. John fingered his phone in his pocket, wondering if he should comply or not. "Go ahead and text Sherlock." He permitted, waving his umbrella in acquiesce. 

John yanked his phone out of his pocket and texted Sherlock sent the name of his brother. 

There was reply within a few moments. 

Go with him. Everything is fine. 

See you soon. SH 

"The jeans can stay, but you _will_ have to put on a shirt and tie." Mycroft mused. "I'm sure Sherlock purchased _something_ to that effect." 

John clenched his fist around his bags. Sherlock _had_ insisted he buy a shirt and tie – he'd wondered why, since Sherlock hadn't pressed him to buy anything else (except a few pairs of underwear). Now he grew suspicious whether Sherlock had known about this kidnapping. 

John changed his shirt in the car and followed alongside Mycroft to an uppercrust restaurant. His walk faltered when he spotted Sherlock and an older woman sitting at a table. His pulse raced a little and his breath shortened. 

Sherlock was always well-dressed. Well-pressed shirts and tailored trousers, which were usually wrinkled and dirty by the end of the day, but he still managed to make the debauched look work quite well. Tonight, he was dressed to impress. 

His crisp white shirt was starched and pressed, with a navy blue silk tie impeccably tied. His hair (usually touseled and 'irrelevant' as he had once described) was artfully styled. As soon as they approached the table, Sherlock stood and pulled a chair out for him, "John, this is Mummy Holmes. Mummy, this is my Doctor Watson." 

The woman extended her hand elegantly and John felt compelled to kiss it rather than shake. She looked pleased. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Holmes." He told her softly. 

"Please, call me Mummy." She replied. Her voice was uppercrust, but still welcoming. 

"John." He returned in kind. 

"I've heard all about you, John." Mummy Holmes commented softly. 

"Mummy, please. We don't want to embarrass him." Sherlock interrupted softly. 

She put a hand on her youngest son's arm. "Alright, Sherlock," she agreed, "we want him to be as comfortable as possible." 

She turned to Mycroft and enquired after something mysterious, and John leaned closer to his stalker-turned-flatmate. "You could have warned me." He whispered softly. 

Sherlock smiled gently and John's heart skipped a beat. "I didn't want you to be nervous." He answered softly. "The shirt looks good." He added gently, and John flushed. 

"You picked it out." The doctor added evasively. 

"Don't avoid the compliment, John." Sherlock suggested. 

Mummy Holmes asked him a question, and the moment was broken. The dinner continued calmly, polite and comfortable. Over dessert and coffee, Sherlock's phone vibrated once and he excused himself to use the toilet. Mycroft was deeply immersed in his dessert. Mummy Holmes, naturally, turned her attention to John. 

"I'm very glad Sherlock met you, John." She told him gently. "His father and I were worried that he might spend his life alone, but thanks to you that may not happen. I'm not saying _you_ have to spend the rest of your life with him, but through you he's developed his first real personal relationship. Thank you for that, John." 

Sherlock returned then, and he leant on the back of John's chair. "Danger." He whispered softly. John felt a delighted thrill, his flesh breaking out in gooseflesh. Sherlock straightened and clasped his mother's hand. "Sorry, Mummy – John and I are needed elsewhere. Thank you for the pleasant evening." 

"Certainly, Sherlock." She agreed. "Let's not wait too long next time." 

"Of course, Mummy. We'll see you at Christmas." He turned to Mycroft and his expression became slightly mocking. "I'll see you before that, no doubt, Mycroft." 

"Of course, Sherlock." Mycroft agreed, perfectly calm. "Good to see you again, John." 

"Thank you, John." Mummy Holmes said softly, before Sherlock whisked them both away. 

"Where are we going?" John asked, shucking into his jacket as they stepped onto the street. 

"Lauriston Gardens, Brixton." Sherlock answered, grinning. "There's been a fifth." He laughed in excitement and clapped his hands together. "This is getting fun!" 

* * *

**Chapter 6: Pink**

* * *

"Wow." Sargeant Donovan mocked as Sherlock climbed out of the taxi. "You look human for once. Who are you trying to impress?" She demanded. At that point, John climbed out of the taxi after his stalker-turned-flatmate. "Oh, I see." She turned and walked towards the house, barking into her walkie-talkie: "The Freak and his Pet are here." 

Sherlock ducked under the rope and hurried off towards the house, pausing to squint at the road seriously. 

"Still hanging 'round him." The Sargeant commented to John as they walked at a slightly-less eager pace. 

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well—" Whatever he would of said was cut off as she continued. 

"Opposites attract, I suppose." She commented derisively. "You should get yourself a hobby. Stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer." He actually shuddered at the thought of that monotony. 

"Come on, John!" Sherlock encouraged, racing past a fuming Anderson into the house. John followed, quickening his step and avoiding the forensic's gaze as he hurried past. He stepped inside the little room set up just as Lestrade stated. "I can give you two minutes." His back was turned away from the door, stepping into his blue jumpsuit. 

"May need longer." Sherlock answered flatly. 

Lestrade turned to glance at them and started for just a moment. "Sorry, did we pull you two out of a hot date?" He asked, smirking in amusement. 

"It wasn't a date." John protested impatiently, yanking up his suit from the table. 

"Dinner, with my mother." Sherlock answered easily. "So, where are we?" He pressed. 

"It's upstairs." Lestrade answered. They headed up the winding stairwell, and he explained: "Footprint analysis says the only other person in this room within the last twelve hours was a man of about five-foot-seven. No clue how they both got here." 

"Car." Sherlock answered dismissively. "Very faint traces of tyre tracks outside the house. Pulled up right out the front. The killer probably walked her in, but that's not a point of any use." 

"All identification is missing from the body, just like the others." Lestrade explained, and he led them into a room. John froze, confused. There was a body, yes – but Sherlock only took him to the more violent grizzly murders. This woman could have been sleeping, but for the complete stillness. "We have no idea who she is or where she's from." 

Sherlock gave the doctor a bright grin, before turning back to the body. "Well, she's from out of town, clearly. Planned to spend a single night in London before returning home. So far, so obvious." 

"Obvious?" John echoed, bewildered. He couldn't see a _thing_ , and yet Sherlock had deduced from seemingly thin air. 

"Yes, obvious. Back of her right leg." He knelt by the body and ran a finger of her coat, checked her pockets and squinted at her jewellery. 

"Have you got anything?" Lestrade pressed. 

"Not much." Sherlock replied with a stony expression. He stood and took out his mobile, pressing a few buttons. "Victim is in her early thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes – probably something in the media judging by the rather alarming shade of pink. She's travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night – that's obvious from the size of her suitcase." 

"Her suitcase?" Lestrade asked, confused. 

"Yes. Her suitcase." Sherlock replied impatiently. He crouched back beside the body, slipping the phone into his pocket. "She's been married for several years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but she didn't tell any of them she was married." 

"For god's sake, if you're just making this up!" Lestrade cried, infuriated. 

"Her wedding ring, look at it!" Sherlock shouted back. "It's too tight, she was thinner when she first wore it, that says married for a while. Also, there's grime around the gemstone. The rest of her jewellery has been cleaned, recently, but not her wedding ring. That gives you the state of her marriage right there. The inside of her ring is shinnier than the outside, that means it's regularly removed – the only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It can't be easy, so she must've had a reason. So what, or rather who, does she remove her ring for? Can't be for work, look at her nails – she doesn't work with her hands. Clearly not one lover, because it has proved to be too difficult to sustain the fiction of being single for that long. So, more likely – a string of them. Simple." 

"Brilliant." John exclaimed, reeling. Sherlock glanced at him sharply, and he ducked his head. "Sorry." 

"Cardiff?" Lestrade prodded, suspicious. 

"Obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, bored. 

"Not to us." John answered boredly. Sherlock got like that sometimes – it seemed to slip his brilliant mind that they weren't quite as quick as him. Usually followed by— 

"Dear god! What's it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." Something along those lines, usually. Before he launched right back into – "Her coat! It's damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours – no rain in London within that time. Under her coat collar is damp too, she's turned it up against the wind. There's an umbrella in her pocket but it's dry and unused – not just wind then, strong wind. Too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase she intended to stay one night, so she must've come a decent distance. But she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat is still hasn't dried." 

He crossed back over to Lestrade and took out his mobile, "So where has there been heavy rain and strong winds within the radius of that travel time?" He thrust the phone towards Lestrade's face. "Cardiff." 

"Fantastic!" John remarked. 

Sherlock frowned slightly, tucking his phone back in his pocket. "Do you know you do that out loud?" He asked, coming over to crouch beside the body. 

"Sorry. I'll shut up." John appologised. 

"No, it's fine." Sherlock answered softly. He cleared his throat. "Cause of death, Doctor Watson?" 

John sighed and crouched beside the body, feeling for a non-existent pulse and sniffing slightly. There was an odour of vomit and he stood up. "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out and choked on her own vomit." He reported. "Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could be a seizure, possibly drugs." 

"It was poison." Sherlock answered, calmly. 

"How do you know?" John asked, confused. 

"Because they were _all_ poisoned." The consultive detective dismissed his query, lifting up the woman's hair and sniffing delicately around her mouth. "Have you identified the drug yet?" 

"Not yet. The lab's working on it." Lestrade answered curtly. 

"Wait, hold on – who is 'all'?" John asked, bewildered. 

"This is the fifth victim." Sherlock replied impatiently. "Of course, you wouldn't know anything about it, thanks to Mycroft's media black-out. At least he's useful for some things." 

"So, they were all poisoned by a serial killer?" John tested, frowning. 

"The poison was self-administered." Sherlock commented, sniffing at her hand. His nose wrinkled slightly and he laid it back in its precise position on the cross-bar of the letter 't'. "Same pattern each time – each one of them disappears from their normal lives and turn up a few hours later somewhere they have no reason to be, dead." 

"Come on, Sherlock. We don't have time for this. He's out there somewhere!" Lestrade cried. 

"If he doesn't want you to find him, you won't." Sherlock snapped back. "He's too clever for that. Now, if you _don't_ mind, I will continue to brief my partner on the case." 

"I _said_ two minutes!" Lestrade protested. 

"And _I_ said I may need longer." Sherlock dismissed blandly. He turned back to John. "No marks of violence on the body, no suggestion of compulsion. Each of them has taken the poison and, as far as we can tell, taken it voluntarily. Until now, none of them have left any messages." He frowned and stood, walking closer to the message. " 'Right'." He read. "What could she possibly have meant by that?" 

"What were you saying about her right leg?" John queried. 

"Don't be irrelevant." Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

The doctor looked for himself. "There's some flecks of mud on her calf." He reported calmly. 

"Yes, yes, yes!" Sherlock yelled, annoyed. He stood up and began pacing. "I told you, that's from the suitcase!" 

"Suitcase. You keep saying suitcase." Lestrade interrupted. "There was no case." 

Sherlock froze, turning to look at him. "Say that again." He commanded. 

"There wasn't a suitcase." Lestrade told him. 

"That's very odd." Sherlock mused, brow furrowing in concentration. "Where is her suitcase?" 

"Maybe she checked into a hotel? Left her case there?" John suggested. 

"Don't be daft: she never made it to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, no woman like that would ever leave a hotel with her hair lookin—" He broke off suddenly and John glanced at his the consulting detective. His eyes widened dramatically. "Oh." His face quickly grew into what John recognised as his 'eureka' expression. "Oh!" 

"Sherlock?" John asked as the other man raced from the room, tugging off his gloves. 

"What? What is it? What? What? What?" Lestrade demanded hurriedly, chasing after him. 

"Serial killers – always hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock remarked, hurrying down the staircase with the two other men in his wake. 

"We can't just _wait_!" Lestrade hissed angrily. 

"Oh, we're done waiting." Sherlock answered calmly. "Look at her, really _look_! Huston, we have a mistake!" He yelled gleefully, bursting out of the house and running down the road. 

"What mistake?" Lestrade yelled after him, stopping in the threshold. 

Sherlock paused to whirl around and bellow back at them: "Pink!" 

"He just took off?" Sargeant Donovon demanded, insulted. 

"Yeah, he does that." John answered impatiently. "Where are we?" He pressed her. 

"Brixton." She answered boredly. 

John sighed in annoyance. It'd take him two hours to walk back! Sherlock could've at least left him money for a cab before racing off. "Right. Thanks." John sighed, before setting off towards the main road. 

As he was walking down a deserted road, utterly lost and muttering about how inconsiderate Sherlock could be, a black cab pulled up beside him. 

"You lost, son?" The driver asked, rolling down the window. His beady eyes were trapped behind large wire-framed glasses, his white hair mostly covered by a cap. Yellowed and gappy teeth grinned at him behind twisted lips. 

"Yeah, a little." John sighed, irritated. 

"Why don't you hop in? I'll take you." He offered, grinning (a little malisciously, John thought, but that was probably his usual paranoia. 

"Sorry, got no money on me." John replied, irritated. 

"It's alright – you can pay me when you get home." The taxi driver suggested. 

"Wow. Thanks." John exclaimed, surprised. He climbed into the back of the taxi. "221B Baker Street, please." 

He could only see the twisted grin in the rear-view mirror. "Sure thing, sir. I promise you the ride of your life." 

* * *

**Chapter 7: Cabbie**

* * *

John's head ached in a very particular way. He knew that feeling, and adrenaline shot through him as he remembered precisely what it meant. He tossed his eyes ope and stared around the living room of flat 221B. He racked his memory for how he'd gotten there and what had happened, but couldn't remember through the pain. He groaned and closed his eyes again. "Who the hell hit me over the head?" 

"That would be me." A somewhat familiar voice replied. 

John rolled his head and looked at the man. Creepy-looking, but John could've sworn he'd seen the other man before. He gave a twisted grin that sent a shiver through John's body, and he remembered in a flash: in the rear-view mirror of the cab he'd... "You're the cabbie." 

"Yeah." He answered. "Just a cabbie. Or so you thought." 

"What's going on?" John asked, sitting up straighter in what he now recognised as Sherlock's armchair. 

"I remember where I picked you up, Doctor Watson. You've been at my crime scene." The Cabbie commented calmly. "What did you think?" 

"You're...you killed that woman. All those people." John realised, adrenaline picking up a notch as the situation kicked in. 

"I didn't kill those people, Doctor Watson." The Cabbie answered easily, sinking into a chair at their make-shift dining table. John had a wayward thought about how clean it was – Mrs Hudson must have been in to clean it. "I talked to them," he continued, "and they killed themselves. Just like _you're_ going to do." 

"I don't think so." John protested, getting unsteadily to his feet. 

"Oh, you're going to. But, don't worry – I'm going to give you a choice." The Cabbie gave him a cruel grin. "Just one." John inched towards the door, keeping the threat in sight. "Sit down, Doctor Watson," he commanded, kicking out the chair across from him, "and we'll start the game." 

"I'm not going to play games with you." John returned icily. 

"Yes. You are." The Cabbie removed a gun from his pocket and pointed it resolutely at the doctor's head. "Believe me when I say you are." 

John froze at the sight of the gun. It was real, and suddenly it sunk in exactly how much danger he was in. "How do you know my name?" He demanded, crossing to sit at the table. 

"Your wallet. Are you really that stupid? I thought for certain that the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't keep such idiotic company." The Cabbie owered the gun onto his lap as John sat. "I guess I was wrong." 

"So, this is about Sherlock then?" John realised, clenching his fists. Why was it always about Sherlock? 

"My...sponsor decided to take a personal interest in your demise." The Cabbie informed him pleasantly. "To Moriaty, _everything_ is about Sherlock. He wasn't too happy to descover how serious the two of you have become – so here you are." 

"Sponsor?" John echoed, disgusted. "For god's sake, someone _pays_ you to kill someone?" 

"Don't act so surprised, John. You've seen people do worse things. You've done some pretty awful things yourself." The Cabbie smiled once more as John felt himself stiffen. "Things you would hang for, if it wasn't Martial Law out there." 

"That was different." John ground out through clenched teeth. 

"Yes – kill or be killed, isn't it? Them or us. One choice, one outcome." The Cabbie then put two clear pill bottles on the table. "A bit like this, then." 

"This is how you did it? Two pills?" John asked, figuring it out. 

"Two pills," the Cabbie agreed, "a good pill and a bad pill. You choose which pill you take, and I take the other." 

John frowned. "The Princess Bride? A bit unoriginal, isn't it?" 

The Cabbie scowled furiously. "It's genius!" he insisted, "I know how people think, I know how they think _I_ think. It's a safe bet for me." 

"And if someone surprised you?" John asked. 

The Cabbie reprised his evil grin (there was really no other word for it). "They don't. You're all so stupid, so boring. So...predictable." 

"Thank god you didn't kidnap Sherlock, then." John reflected dryly. 

The Cabbie scowled again and pushed one of the pills forward. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad ill?" He prompted. 

John's head reeled. No doubt Sherlock would have a dozen indications of which was which, but Sherlock wasn't here. This was John, and all he saw were two identical bottles containing four identical capsules each and one of them was intent on killing him. "What if I don't choose a pill?" He asked, realising his breath was coming in short gasps. His left hand was steady as a rock. 

"Then I shoot you." The Cabbie replied calmly. "But not a quick death, oh no. I'll shoot you in the stomach, where your own body will poison you." He gave the evil grin (John was _really_ sick of that grin). "You'd struggle to save yourself, but you _would_ die eventually. This way is quicker, and a lot less traumatic." He gave John a hard look. "Or perhaps you _deserve_ the other option, John. What about Private Scriven? You killed him. _Just like that_." 

"That was an accident." John protested, his throat closing up. "It was dark – there was friendly fire." 

"I'm sure that didn't console young Lewis, did it?" The Cabbie pushed. 

"How the _hell_ do you know his name?" John demanded furiously. 

"With the right sources, someone can find out anything." He grinned again. "Did he cry, John? Did you hold him for his last breath?" John knew he should have been lashing out with fury, but he was frozen with guilt instead. "You're right – you deserve that death more." The Cabbie decided. He pointed the gun at John's torso. 

"No!" John protested furiously. "No." He added, quieter now. "I'll choose, just give me a few moments to decide." 

His heart raced and his mind jumped all over the place, trying to spot _any_ difference between the two pills. He reached a steady hand for the pill bottle closest to the Cabbie. 

"Interesting." The Cabbie commented, amused. He unscrewed the bottles and tipped out two pills. "Are you ready then, Doctor Watson?" He picked one up and held it near his face. 

John hesitated. God, what if he had made the wrong decision? This bastard would get away, and Sherlock...bloody hell, it _was_ all about Sherlock. He just hoped if the bastard lived, Sherlock would track him down and bring him to justice. 

He lifted the pill towards his mouth, before jumping out of his skin when the door downstairs banged open. "John! John, I found it! Are you home?" That was Sherlock. 

The Cabbie gave the evilest grin yet. "Looks like the game just got a bit more interesting." 

* * *

**Chapter 8: Pills**

* * *

Sherlock did not look shocked when he entered the living room. He looked furious. 

No doubt he'd deduced what was going on from the footsteps as the Cabbie had dragged John up from the chair and stood him before the door, gun to his head. His eyes flickered over the Cabbie before his attention squared on John. "Have you taken anything?" He asked steadily. 

"Not yet. Impeccable timing, Mister Holmes." The Cabbie supplied. 

Sherlock continued to ignore him. "Are you okay, John? Has he hurt you in any way?" He demanded. 

"He knocked me across the head." John answered factually. 

Sherlock's eyes danced to a heavy book on the desk and his scowl deepened. Finally, he gave the Cabbie a deadly glare. "I suggest you let him go." He said, his voice low with threat. 

"I don't think so," the Cabbie replied pleasantly, "the three of us are going to play a game." 

"No thanks." Sherlock dismissed. "Let him go, now." 

"See, you either play the game and take the chance he'll live, or I shoot him right now and eliminate the odds." John felt the butt of the gun digging into his skull and struggled irrationally in the old man's vice grip. 

John tried to meet the consulting detective's eyes, tried to tell him not to risk the odds. But Sherlock was locked in a battle of wits with the murderer. 

His eyes danced to the table. "Two pills, of course." He commented. "You know which is which, naturally. Your victim chooses which they take." 

"And he takes the other." John supplied steadily. 

"Oh, interesting." Sherlock mused, sounding incredibly unimpressed. 

"We're going to play the game a little differently now, since the great Sherlock Holmes has deigned to join us." The Cabbie announced witheringly. 

"No!" John gasped, mind leaping ahead to the only logical outcome. Sherlock looked livid. 

"You two are going to choose a pill each, and I'll play the winner in the next round." The Cabbie explained steadily. 

"We won't do it." John protested. 

The Cabbie fired the gun. The bullet roared past his ears and he flinched, ears ringing and heart racing as it hit the wall, in the smiley face Sherlock had taken to aiming at in his bored moods. It landed squarely between the little yellow eyes. 

John wanted to run, his eyes unfocussing as his mind threw up images of deserts and insurgents. He struggled in the Cabbie's grip until he broke free and found himself with his shoulder's in Sherlock's firm grip. 

He settled as the familiar scent of his flatmate sunk through his haze and he trembled, as much with rage as fear and adrenaline. He finally met Sherlock's gaze, but it was apologetic and guilty. 

He lowered John into an armchair (Sherlock's armchair) and turned to the table. "You and I will play, there's no need to bring John into this." 

"No," the Cabbie answered firmly, "you're not the one in charge here." John closed his eyes as the gun was pointed back in his direction. 

"Please?" John was too stunned to open his eyes. Sherlock never _begged._ He just didn't. "Fine." Sherlock's voice was strained, and spoken through clenched teeth. John literally jumped when he felt a hand on his arm, but I quick inhale told him it was his flatmate and not the murderer. "I'm sorry, John. We'll have to risk it." 

"I don't want die." He whispered, hating how small and useless his voice sounded. The consulting detective needed someone strong, who wouldn't buckle at the first thought of being shot, who could keep his head and figure out the answer when his life is on the line. 

He expected Sherlock to berate him, mock him by asking where is courage was now. He didn't expect Sherlock to lean down and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. "You're not going to, John." 

The doctor tried to look for meaning in the man's eyes - but all he saw was sadness and apology, before they blinked rapidly and very specifically. Morse code. Sherlock was spelling for him to follow his instincts. A tear slipped from his duct - real emotion or over-blinking? John didn't know. 

"How touching." The Cabbie remarked from the dining room table. 

"Shut up!" John yelled furiously, "you got what you want! We're playing your game, can't you at least let us say goodbye?" 

He turned back to Sherlock with the intention of blinking out a demand for information, but Sherlock merely closed his eyes and rested his head against John's. If he hadn't known that the consulting detective was as athiest as they come (existential), he would've thought the other man was praying. As it was, Sherlock was probably making a hundred deductions about the two little pills. 

He lifted John's hands and John realised he still had one capsule clenched tightly in his fists. Sherlock sniffed it delicately and gave a tiny sigh. The strange intimate, desperate Sherlock disappeared and he glared at the Cabbie. "I'll have the pill in your hand, please." He commanded. 

"Are you sure?" The Cabbie asked patronizingly. 

"Yes. The pill in your left hand, give it to me." Sherlock snapped angrily. 

The elderly man obliged, handing an identical capsule to the consulting detective. 

As the man turned to walk away, Sherlock pushed the pill between John's teeth and bowed his head to take the second from Joh's loose fist. The younger man's lips lingered just a moment against John's palm, before the Cabbie's stangled cry came from over by the table. 

Sherlock stood gracefully, but wavered a bit at full height. He took a few steps before his knees buckled and he gagged. "Quick-acting." He panted out, groaning and curling in on himself. 

"Dissolves as soon as it hits your stomach acid." The Cabbie said, horrified. "You weren't supposed to save him!" He bellowed, looking terrified. 

John could only stare in horror as Sherlock curled in foetal position, prostate on the rug. He retched horribly and a sickening dribble of bile trickled onto the floor. Sherlock panted and wiped his mouth with a loose fist, coughing and retching. He clenched his fist and held it to his heaving stomach. 

He gagged and panted, breath getting shorter. It seemed to take an eternity for John to sit through, but finally Sherlock Holmes lay face-down on the carpet of 221B Baker Street, utterly still. 

* * *

**Chapter 9: Sacrifice**

* * *

In the end, John wasn't entirely sure how he felt about the fact that Sherlock had been willing to die for him. It wasn't the first time he had to watch someone die saving him, nor the most violent. A private had leapt on a grenade for him once in Afghanistan – the entire platoon had gathered every piece of Private Saunders they could find and made damn well sure he'd been delivered home to his family. It wasn't even the longest he'd had to watch someone die for him. A teenaged private had taken a bullet from him and spent days slowly dying of gangrenous infection while John watched and prayed for a miracle delivery of medical supplies. They came two hours after Private Duke had passed. The only other time John had prayed after that was for his life. 

But seeing Sherlock die for him had been the hardest. He couldn't figure out why, but the memories of all the other deaths he had seen (his responsibility or just witnessing) suddenly paled in comparison to the man who had once been his stalker choking and crying on the carpet of their flat. 

He had tried to pin down his feelings: honoured, yes; guilt, too; mind-consuming grieving and an overwhelming sense of disbelief. But something else, too. Something he couldn't name. 

When everything was over, John decided to feel glad that only one person had died in flat 221B that night. 

Once he'd pumped enough adrenaline to cut through the horror, he'd thrown himself across the distance and shoved his fingers into Sherlock's neck. There would be time to go into shock later. His eyes widened as he searched for a pulse and his mind stopped working for a few moments as the information sunk in. 

Then he yanked his hand back and whirled on the Cabbie, his face a mask a horror. "He's dead... **YOU BASTARD**!" He almost didn't recognise his own voice. It rang false and he trembled in fear: Sherlock would kill him if he gave up now. 

"Play your cards wrong and you might join him." The Cabbie returned. But that rang false as well. He kept glancing around the flat in complete terror, waiting for something impossible John couldn't conceive of. 

"You'll lose this time." John said resolutely. 

The Cabbie sneered. "I'm going to die anyway." He snatched up the two bottles and handed the doctor the one they both knew was safe. "Did I just give you the good pill or the bad pill?" He mocked, hands shaking violently as h opened his own bottle. 

John's hand was steady, and as he opened the bottle his eyes flickered to the patch of rug where Sherlock had choked and stopped moving. He refocused back on the Cabbie and froze slightly as he saw a tiny red dot land on the elderly man's temple before there was the loud pop of a sniper. John blinked, staring in horror as the murderer fell to the ground, revealing a surprised Sherlock who had been pointing John's own army browning at the Cabbie's back. 

John didn't even have the presence of mind to check where the hell the bullet had come from. He stepped unceremoniously over the fresh corpse and clutched at Sherlock's shirt, pressing his fingers to the carotid artery. There it was again – the racing of Sherlock's heart pumping with adrenaline, just like he'd felt on the carpet. 

"John, I assure you I'm quite alive." The consulting detective stated calmly. 

"Forgive me if I don't believe you." John cried irrationally, exhaustion growing as the adrenaline faded out. "You _swallowed_ a poisonous pill and _died_ right in front of me. I'm a little discombobulated." 

"Well, obviously I didn't swallow it." Sherlock pointed out rationally. "I kept it under my tongue, faked a death scenario and waited for you to figure it out." 

"Why?" John bit furiously. 

"I didn't know if you could fake a death well enough and there really wasn't enough time to blink out how you should do it. It had to b me." Sherlock dismissed calmly. "I knew you'd check my vitals and realise I was still alive. Give him enough distraction for me to gain the upper hand." 

"Oh," John sighed softly, "you weren't sacrificing yourself for me, then." He tried for light. He knew he shouldn't be upset about that. He should've been glad that neither of them had to die at all. But after the stresses of the night, he was fine with being irrational. 

He released Sherlock's shirt and turned away to focus his thoughts. "John," his once-stalker whispered, touching his arm, "if it came down to that, I still would have." 

The doctor tried to ignore the thrill that thought gave him. Instead, he focused on the Cabbie at his feet. His temple was bleeding sluggishly, and the sight made him feel dizzy. 

John realised two things very quickly. "That shouldn't didn't come from— I don't feel right." He wavered on his feet and stumbled. He felt Sherlock's arms around his torso and his sluggish brain finally caught up. "I'm allergic..." His breaths started coming really short, and his knees buckled. "Allergic to..." 

He didn't make out the words before the black void rose up to meet him. 

... 

" _I'm making dinner. What do you want?" John called from the kitchen._

_Sherlock's voice came from the living room. "Just tea for me thanks."_

" _Aren't you going to eat?" John asked, confused. His fingers stilled on the mugs and he walked to the doorway. Sherlock was spread out on the couch, clutching his arm. "What are you doing?" He asked suspiciously._

" _Nicotine patches," the consulting detective answered, lowering his arm, "helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."_

" _Good news for breathing." John supplied lightly._

" _Ugh, breathing." Sherlock scoffed, disgusted. "Breathing is boring."_

_John stared at his flatmate of three days, reeling. Why on earth was he sharing a flat with a man who thought **breathing** was **boring**? He knew the answer: because Sherlock would find some way to make John share his flat anyway. _

_He looked closer at the man's arm, seeing scars from track marks beneath the... "Is that **three** patches?" John asked, bewildered._

" _It's a three patch problem." Sherlock informed him delicately._

" _Right..." John dragged out. He shook his thoughts off. "Are you going to eat?" He changed the subject._

" _What day is it?" Sherlock asked instead._

_John frowned, confused. "Wednesday."_

" _I'm okay for a bit." Sherlock dismissed, waving his hand slightly._

_John nodded, intent in going back into the kitchen when the meaning of his stalker's words sunk in. "You haven't eaten today? For god's sake! You need to eat!" John cried, horrified._

" _No, **you** need to eat. **I** need to think." Sherlock answered distractedly, eyes closed and hands poised under his chin as if he was praying. _

" _You don't eat?" John demanded, his doctor's conscience kicking in._

" _I never eat when I'm on a case. Digesting slows me down." Sherlock supplied logically._

_John was horrified. "Sherlock, food is vital to—"_

" _The brain is what counts," his stalker answered distractedly, "everything else is transport."_

" _You might consider re-fuelling." The doctor pointed out, trying to appeal to Sherlock's twisted sense of logic. Sherlock just hummed non-comittally and opened his eyes to glare at the ceiling. "Have you slept today?" John pressed, worried._

" _No time to sleep. There are facts to consider." Sherlock answered._

" _So," John concluded pointedly, "you don't... **do**...anything?"_

_Sherlock rolled his head to scowl at him. "Everything else is transport." He repeated, emphasizing each word purposefully._

_John just nodded once, and went back into the kitchen. He made his tea while he stuck a frozen meal in the microwave and sat in his armchair._

_After a little while, Sherlock turned his head to glare at John. "Where's my tea?"_

_John gave him an innocent look. "Everything else is transport." He returned lightly._

_He expected Sherlock to get mad. He didn't expect the amused smirk as his stalker went back to his 'thinking'. "Well, I walked into that one."_

_John shook his head to himself as he sipped his tea. Living with Sherlock certainly wasn't going to be boring._

"You realise you talk in your sleep, yes?" A flat voice commented. John opened his sticky eyes to see Sherlock sitting stiffly in a horribly orange plastic chair beside his bed. "Allergic to morphine." He stated coldly. "You don't think this is something you should have told me _before_?" He demanded furiously. 

John gave him an unimpressed look. "You hadn't deduced this already?" He mocked sourly. "I didn't know the damned serial killer was prescribed morphine, did I?" He snapped coldly. 

"Well, he was," Sherlock snapped petulantly, "for his aneurism." 

"Aneurism?" John echoed, lost. 

"Yes. In his frontal lobe." Sherlock answered calmly. "If I had known you were allergic to morphine, I wouldn't have forced you to take that pill, John." 

John frowned, trying to repress the urge... He sighed and surrendered. "Alright, go on – how did you know which pill was which?" He queried impatiently. 

Sherlock grinned, obviously glad for a chance to return to a place where he felt most comfortable. "A number of easily recognised factors, once you know what you're looking for." He answered calmly. "First, basic human instinct: the Cabbie would have wanted to keep the safety in his dominant hand – in this case his right; so, obviously, the morphine pill was in his right pocket. Second, he employed easy reverse psychology: his victims believe that he is going to kill them, therefore they choose the pill that is _not_ offered to them; it would be simple enough to predict this and ensure he offered forth the pill he himself intended on taking. Lastly, the poison had a very faint aroma that I was able to recognise from the previous victims." 

"Oh." John let all the information settle in. "So, of course you knew which was which." 

"John, I would never put you in danger." Sherlock commented seriously. 

John barked out a disbelieving laugh. "You _are_ kidding, right?" He asked incredulously, " Sherlock, you've put me in more danger since I've met you than my entire pre-Afghanistan life." He pointed out, "But, then again I suppose that's what happens when you drag me out to interrogate suspects and inspect crime scenes." 

Sherlock winced. "You're right," He sighed, "but I can say I would never put you in danger that I am not certain I can control?" He suggested warily. 

John frowned, but nodded when the idea rang true. "Yeah, I think we can agree on that." He conceded. 

Sherlock gave him a brilliant grin. "Excellent!" He pulled the orange chair closer to John's bed side and propped his head on an elbow leant on the mattress. "So! You were dreaming of our third day in the flat. The Orange Flamingo case, if I'm not mistaken..." 

* * *

**Chapter 10: Hugging**

* * *

Sherlock, completely calm and unaffected, sat at his desk as John entered hesitantly. It infuriated the ex-soldier and he clenched his violently shaking fist. 

"You took your time." The consulting detective observed, not looking up from the laptop screen. 

John clenched his jaw, annoyed. His flatmate could at least _look at him_ when he entered the room! "Yeah, I didn't get the shopping." He remarked bitterly. 

"What?" Sherlock lifted his head, but stared at the wall rather than turning to look at the doctor. "Why not?" He asked. 

"Because I had a row!" John shouted, loudly to make an attempt to cover up his utter embarrassment. "...in the shop..." he added, dwindling, "...with a chip and pin machine." John could still vividly recall his utter mortification as the machine had robotically informed him that his card was declined, while other shoppers waited in line behind him glaring. 

"You..." Sherlock turned to look at him then, his expression amused, "you had a row with a machine?" 

"Sort of." John replied awkwardly. "It sat there and I shouted abuse." Sherlock raised his eyebrows but said nothing, turning back to whatever he was typing. "Have you got any cash?" The doctor pressed. They were out of food and Sherlock would get pissy if he didn't get tea whenever it took his fancy. 

"Take my card." He commanded airily, tossing his wallet on the desk beside him. 

John glared. His frustration only built as he walked towards Sherlock and the wallet. "You could get it yourself!" he snapped angrily, "You know, you've been sitting here all morning. You've not even moved since I left!" Sherlock turned to study him scrutinisingly, and John spotted what he was working on. "Is that _my_ laptop?" He demanded, temper flaring. 

"Of course. Mine was in the bedroom." Sherlock answered, tilting his head and continuing to study his flatmate. 

"It's password protected!" John pointed out furiously. 

"In a manner of speaking." Sherlock answered dismissively. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours – hardly Fort Knox." 

"Right!" John snapped. He stormed the rest of the distance and slammed the lid closed. "Thank you!" He snatched his laptop away and stormed into the kitchen. 

"John," the consulting detective called after him, "are you alright?" 

"I'm fine." John ground out. He shoved his laptop in a random drawer and clenched his jaw as his left hand trembled violently. 

"You're lying." Sherlock commented from the doorway. "You've come home clearly agitated after having an irrational venting session to a non-sentient being. Your left hand is at the worst I've ever seen it and you're limping very slightly, indicating that your psychosomatic limp is resurfacing." 

John clenched the offending fist and squared his shoulders. He _wasn't_ okay. Two weeks ago he had been held at gunpoint, nearly poisoned, forced to watch his closest friend die and been admitted to hospital because of a bad allergic reaction to the morphine. And if it wasn't bad enough trying to come to terms with all that, he couldn't withstand how utterly and completely _bored_ he felt! 

He didn't acknowledge the consulting detective's claim. He didn't need to. Sherlock would deduce everything in a few more moments anyway. 

"I'm not going to press you." Sherlock promised quietly. "As much as I would like to be, I'm probably not the best person for you to talk to. But if you need to 'unload', as they say, I'll try my best to be here for you." 

John sighed out a shuddering breath. It was so...so Sherlock. The man was a sociopath (however high-functioning) and he struggled to understand normal human struggles, yet here he was trying to understand for John's sake. 

"Thanks." He said softly. 

He turned to look at his flatmate and suddenly found himself wrapped in long arms. The gesture was so unexpected that he stood relaxed in Sherlock's arms for a few long moments before the situation sunk in. 

"Uh...Sherlock? What's this?" John asked, bewildered. 

"Basic human reflexology tells us that applying pressure here," Sherlock squeezed one arm around John's waist, "and here," he squeezed the other around the doctor's torso, "help to soothe a person. It slows the heart rate and calms a person down, relaxes them." 

"You're hugging me." John commented, thrown. He had enough presence of mind to tease lightly: "in the real world, we call this 'hugging'." 

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement and continued to hold the doctor in his embrace until John was lax and kind of sleeping against his chest. They stayed like that until Sherlock's phone went off, followed a beat later by John's. The consulting detective scowled as he pulled away, and John hurried to take out Harry's old phone with his good hand. 

Lunch with Mummy. 

Don't be late. 

Mycroft Holmes 

"Please tell me that was a text from Lestrade requesting our help?" John begged softly. However pleasant he found Mummy Holmes, Sherlock's brother _still_ made him uncomfortable. 

Sherlock gave a lopsided smile. "Of course not. Come on, you should shower before we leave." 

... 

Mummy Holmes greeted John like a long-lost son even though it had been little over two weeks since they had last seen each other and six days since they had spoken on the phone. (He'd answered because Sherlock never did and had been absorbed into a long-winded conversation with the consulting detective's mother). Mycroft was his usual stand-offish self and enquired after his recovery softly. John completely ducked the question and served himself and his flatmate tea from an ornate china pot. 

It was halfway through lunch when the peace was broken, predictably by the elder Holmes brother. "I really must re-caution you, Sherlock, against taking suspected poisons from known serial killers." 

John flinched visibly as Mummy Holmes' face grew utterly horrified. Sherlock set his brother with a furious glare. "And they call _me_ the insensitive one!" He ground out angrily. 

"Sherlock, darling – it isn't true, is it?" Mummy Holmes asked in a very strangled voice. There were tears leaking down her gracefully aged face and Sherlock shot his brother a dark glare before he scooted closer to his mother. 

"Shh-shh, Mummy. It's okay. Please don't cry?" He cooed urgently, tucking her up in his arms. 

Since his flatmate was preoccupied, John settled an angry glare on the elder Holmes brother. He clenched his steady fist and Mycroft fixed him with an unperturbed expression. "Really, John – you know that was for the best." 

The doctor's glare hardened. "Yeah, I think you could have a little more respect for your mother's emotional state, Mycroft." He bit off icily. 

"I have the utmost." Mycroft answered blandly, "But I am not adverse to manipulating it if that brings Sherlock back into line. Even you will admit that his behaviour with the Cabbie was very reckless." 

John stared at Mycroft in disbelief, before filling his mouth with teacake and refusing to talk for a good few minutes. Mummy Holmes appeared to be entirely inconsolable still, though Sherlock was extending his best efforts to calm her down. 

"...and fiercely loyal. I could use a man of such qualities to help negotiate a certain...disagreement with the Afghan secret service." John tuned back in to what Mycroft was saying. 

"What?" He demanded, wondering what the hell the government official was talking about – but nonetheless intrigued by the mere mention of the country that took up so much of his history. 

"Completely optional, of course. And nothing urgent – but if you _do_ decide you want a break from the humdrum of civilian life, be sure to let me know." Mycroft commented, grinning. The grin wasn't as 'evil' as that of the Cabbie, but it certainly made John uncomfortable. 

He shifted awkwardly in his seat and turned his attention back to the two other Holmes's. Their mother was no longer crying, but she looked suddenly older – finally taking on the appearance of the woman who had raised such difficult men as Mycroft &Sherlock. 

The younger was glaring murderously at his older brother and stood. "Mycroft. Now." He growled, stalking away from the lunch table. 

Mycroft followed, and Mummy Holmes turned a worn-out look to the ex-army doctor. "It does vex me so," she commented, "when Sherlock takes such reckless chances with his life." 

John sighed, flushing with shame. "He didn't have much of a choice when it came down to it, Mummy." He told her guiltily, still stumbling with the awkwardness of her chosen form of address. "I was kidnapped by the serial killer. Sherlock turned up right in time. He saved my life – both of ours, and a lot more besides, really." 

When he looked up, she was watching him with a weary but contented expression. "I truly am glad he has found you, John dear. I always knew he could become a great man, and with your help he is well on the way." She took his hands and held them tightly in her own, peering into his face. She sighed and shook her head. "You'd best tell Mycroft up front to find someone else for his little mission. However tempting it may seem to you right now, I think it could do nothing but damage. To your own recovery as well as the relationship between you and Sherlock." She squeezed his hands and let them drop, turning her attention to the reappearance of her two sons. 

"...and I _mean_ that, Mycroft. No empty threat this time." Sherlock finished his threat, sinking back into his seat and finding John's hand under the table. He gripped it tightly, but John wasn't really sure whether he was giving or taking comfort from the gesture. 

"Darling, I already know about the good crockery." Mummy Holmes commented dryly. 

"Yes, but what about your best-occasion silverware?" Sherlock tested, glaring steadily at a rapidly paling Mycroft. 

Mummy Holmes looked shocked and then suspicious. She, too, glared at her eldest son and it was no real surprise when Mycroft excused himself for the day. 

Sherlock kissed his mother on the cheek and gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry, Mummy. Mycroft gave your silverware to the ambassador of Latvia as an apology for some unpleasantness with the last MI6 debacle. But do make sure you don't let on that you know – I'll be out of bargaining chips until the next terrorist attack, otherwise." He stood and helped the doctor to his feet. "We should get going too. Come on, John." 

John and Sherlock left Mummy Holmes with a calm expression and a strong drink as they left the quiet of the cafe and returned to their turbulent lives at 221B. 

* * *

**Chapter 11: Misunderstanding**

* * *

Sarah was pretty, accepted his lame attempts at humour and (best of all) wasn't deeply entangled in a gruesome crime. He'd come in for an interview about locum work and left with an affirmative promise for a to-be-arranged-later coffee date. He was walking back to Baker Street when a black cab slid into place beside him. He flinched and wished he had his gun to protect himself. 

He calmed slightly when the back door opened and Sherlock stepped out, "Come on, John - crime scene." He indicated the inside of the taxi and John hesitated - just long enough for his flatmate to notice, so he didn't bother moving. 

"Can't we take the tube? Or a bus?" John suggested. 

"No." Sherlock answered shortly, pushing John closer to the hackney with a hand to his lower back. 

"Alright, alright! Just stop _pushing_ me!" John snapped, quickening his step and getting sourly into the interior of the cab. Sherlock climbed in after him and the driver continued on his way. "Where are we going?" 

"Crime scene." Sherlock answered blandly, typing furiously on his mobile. 

"Don't! Don't do that!" John bit off furiously. 

The consulting detective looked up at him, his glare steady. "Don't do what?" He demanded coldly. 

"Don't avoid the question, Sherlock. If you're going to keep dragging me out to all these places you could at least have the common decency to tell me where we're going." 

"The actual location is very rarely prelevant to the crime." Sherlock answered dismissively. 

"That's not the _point,_ Sherlock!" John snapped. 

"Then what _is_ your point, John?" Sherlock asked irritably, turning to his flatmate. 

"The point, Sherlock, is that I never know where I am in these damn situations! If I'd had a little bit of knowledge of where I was last time, I may not have ended up in that _bloody_ taxi!" He hadn't realised how loud he was shouting until the sudden quiet shocked him. 

Sherlock looked...sad. He turned his face away to look out the window and John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the interior of the taxi feeling suddenly too big and empty. 

The sounds of London outside were inaudible as they crept into more residential quarters. John was furious with himself for feeling guilty about upsetting Sherlock - the sociopath needed to learn how much his dismissals were impacting on John's safety. There was no hope wishing the consulting detective would care for his own. Which had all been fine while Sherlock worked alone, but now that John was in the midst of everything he had the right to at least know where he was and the easiest ways to get to relative safety. 

"I'm sorry." Sherlock's apology startled him out of his introspection, and he turned to look at his flatmate, but he was still staring out the window. "I ought not to have put you in this situation at all." 

"That's not what I'm saying, Sherlock." John corrected softly. 

"Then I don't understand, John!" Sherlock cried, desperate. He turned to face the doctor and John was unsettled to see a tear track running down his face. "What are you trying to say?" 

"I don't mind the crime scenes. I don't mind running all over London with, or after, you. I'm not bothered by manipulating and interrogating suspects. Hell, I _like_ hearing your astounding deductions." He shook his head and looked at his steady left hand. "It's stupid and illogical, but doing everything with you seems to be the only thing that keeps me sane." 

Sherlock smiled weakly and gripped his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Go on." He prodded gently. 

"I don't want to give up this—whatever it is we're doing. But I want to feel...well, not 'safer', because that's the whole point." John frowned at his own twisted confusion. "But...less stupid." He realised his own needs in the matter. "You're already light-years ahead of everyone in intelligence, Sherlock, I don't need to be any stupider because I'm uninformed." 

"John," the consulting detective said softly, "you don't need to worry: I always inform you on the essential facts." 

"Well, maybe I need more than what you think are the essentials." John pointed out, feeling a trickle of annoyance. 

"What? You want me to tell you every fact, no matter how irrelevant, that I observe?" Sherlock asked, arching his eyebrows. 

"No. No, that would be too much. We need to figure out some sort of balance." He sighed and frowned as he considered. "How about this – when I _ask_ you a question, you actually answer it?" He suggested. 

Sherlock scoffed distastefully, but nodded tightly. "I don't see why you can't just trust my judgement on how much information you need to know." He pointed out petulantly. 

"Because you're not all-knowing, Sherlock." John retorted impatiently. "You need to tell me the things I want to know." 

"Even if I know you won't like the answer?" Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow. 

John scowled. "Yes." He growled. 

"What if it's something I don't want you to know?" The consulting detective tested. 

"You tell me. God damn, Sherlock the world doesn't revolve around you!" John snapped, annoyed. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Quite right, I'm not the—" he consulting detective broke off suddenly and glared out the winow. 

"The sun." John stated, shocked realisation dawning on him. "Sherlock, the earth revolves around the _sun_." 

"Hm? Oh, whatever." Sherlock dismissed distractedly. "It's really not important." 

"...Sherlock, are you telling me you _didn't_ know that?" John asked. His flatmate avoided his gaze and the doctor laughed wildly. "You're kidding right? How can you not know—?" 

"I just said it was unimportant!" the consulting detective snapped furiously. The car came to a halt and he leapt out quickly, shoving a note at the driver and striding quickly away from the cab. 

John hurried after him, filled with childish delight. "Let me get this straight: the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't know—" He broke off when he saw the corpse of a beautiful young woman hanging out of a tree. 

Well, that certainly put a damper on the mood. 

... 

John returned to the flat in damp spirits. He and Sarah had _finally_ found a day when they were both free and he'd been looking forward to their date for two weeks. He'd sat in that coffee shop for three hours. No call, no text, no communication at all: he'd been royally stood up and for the life of him he couldn't figure out why! 

Sherlock was stretched out on the couch in his pyjamas, eyes closed to the world and hand hanging limply off the side of the couch. John's browning was clenched tightly in his fist and the doctor sighed in annoyance as Sherlock raised his arm and shot, without bothering to open his eyes. It struck the yellow smiley face in the left eye. 

John exhaled sharply in annoyance and crossed to firmly take the gun out of Sherlock's hand. "Not now, okay Sherlock?" He growled through clenched teeth, taking the gun into the kitchen and putting it in the same drawer as his laptop. 

"I'm bored!" Sherlock cried desperately, accompanied by the sounds of thumping arms and legs and he had a childish tantrum. "Bored! Bored! Bored!" There was a crash near the mantelpiece and John raced into the living room, eyes blazing. Sherlock had tossed a cushion at a ceramic vase which now lay in pieces on the hearth. 

"Right!" John roared. He snatched the cushion up and beat Sherlock's turned back furiously, wishing it wasn't such a childish gesture. "Get! Up! And! Find! A! Case!" He punctuated each word with a fiece whack and tossed the pillow away, turning back to the living room and drawing heaving breaths. 

"John?" Sherlock's hesitant voice came. "What's the matter?" 

"What's the matter?" John echoed angrily. "I just spent three hours waiting at a cafe for Sarah to show up, and now every single person knows I'm an idiot!" He snapped. 

"She didn't call you to confirm that it was cancelled? That's rather rude...isn't it?" Sherlock tested, unsurre of his assumption. 

"Yes, that's damn rude!" John agreed angrily. "She could have at least—" John broke off and turned to his flatmate with a glare, "what do you mean 'confirm'?" He demanded icily. 

"Well, obviously I had to set her straight. She misunderstood your intentions – she thought you were asking her out on a 'date'. I told her otherwise and she cancelled the appointment." Sherlock answered dully, picking at some miniscule piling on his sleeve. 

John stood still, fury building as the information sunk in. "Why the bloody hell would you go and do that for?" He bellowed furiously. 

Sherlock looked up, surprised. "What? What did I do wrong?" 

"What did you— **Sherlock!** I _was_ asking her out on a date!" John shouted. 

Sherlock's expression grew cold for a moment. He sat up properly on the couch and faced John face-on. His jaw clenched, but while his every visual appearance was furious, his voice sounded completely heartbroken as he asked: "Why would you do that to me?" 

John's anger dwindled in the face of his utter confusion. "What?" 

"I don't understand." Sherlock's appearance started to match his tone. His shoulders slumped and tears gathered in his usually cold grey eyes. "If you wanted to break up, why wouldn't you tell me first?" 

"Break up?" John echoed, lost. 

"Well, if you didn't want to break up, why are you dating other people?" Sherlock shouted hysterically, his face contorted in a twisted mask of pain. "Tell me what I did?" He pleaded desperately. 

The realisation struck John at full force. "Sherlock...do you think we're dating?" He asked. 

"Well, of course we're—" Sherlock froze, staring at John in mortification, "you're...you're joking right?" 

"Sherlock, since when have we been dating?" John asked, strangled. 

"Are you...you can't possibly be that dense!" Sherlock gasped, getting unsteadily to his feet. "I followed all the basic courting procedures:" he paced back and forth across the living room, "I waited three days after meeting you to re-establish contact. I took you out to dinners and took you to see grusome murders and complex crimes—" 

"Most people do that by watching movies." John commented vaguely. 

"Movies are dull." Sherlock snapped angrily. "We engaged in meaningless activities in the name of bonding. We moved in together when it became mutually beneficial. You even met my mother!" His breath hitched and he sunk back into the couch. "How did it escape your notice?" He asked, despaired. 

John could barely breathe, let alone move. "You never _once_ asked me, or told me." He exhaled softly. 

"I didn't think I would need to! Social situations make me uncomfortable enough as it is!" the consulting detective cried, "I thought you would be able to recognise what I was doing." He added in a tiny voice. 

"I..." John started to panic. It was all too unreal. "I have to get some air." He gasped. 

"John, wait!" Sherlock bellowed, as the doctor raced out of the flat. 

John just shook his head violently and continued running, eyes locked on the pavement and dodging as feet came into his line of view. He ran until he really couldn't any more, and when he was clutching a phone box and trying to catch his breath a black sedan pulled up beside him. 

The door opened and Mycroft sat in the interior, looking rather smug. "Why don't you get in, John?" 

* * *


End file.
